The Angel Court Affair

by Anne Perry

  Pitt followed, Narraway behind him. No one spoke until they were in the deserted yard facing the street. Teague motioned them to blend into the shadows.

  “Let him pass us,” he whispered.

  “If he’s coming,” Pitt answered.

  “Oh, he’s coming.” Teague’s voice oozed certainty, and satisfaction. They still sent another chill of ice through Pitt’s blood. Teague had said the words with pleasure.

  The cloud cover was already darkening the moon. Somewhere to the left of them, near the street, there was a very slight sound, wood against wood.

  Teague froze, then turned slowly and peered toward the gate.

  “Quiet!” he hissed.

  Then Pitt heard it as well, a faint creak, the bump of metal on wood, and then silence for several seconds before the rattle of small stones as if someone had slithered a step before regaining their balance and moving on again.

  Pitt saw him first. A tall man moving awkwardly, almost feeling his way across the last few yards of open space before the huge wall of the building, and what was left of it. It was Barton Hall. Pitt knew him from his gait, the angle of his head and shoulders, then, as he turned, his face was in the hazy moonlight for an instant before the clouds drew together again. He looked like a man who has seen his own death: sunken-eyed, hollow-cheeked, all his pain inside him, moving as if his arms and legs were all but numb.

  He fiddled with the latch of the door, soon realizing that it was broken. He heaved his shoulder against it to force it open and went in through the space, leaving it ajar.

  Teague swung his arm, directing them all to follow him. He went through the door first with Pitt on his heels.

  Inside, Pitt looked up. It was the entrance to the enormous factory, now fallen into a wreck of its past self and clearly no longer used. The whole roof was shattered, much of it fallen inside in a patchwork of debris, shattered glass, broken rafters and beams, some hanging at crazy angles. The walls were stained, windows broken, some so shattered there was nothing left but the empty frames. A crane had rusted so badly parts of it were hanging off the structure, dangling against the caved-in walls of a loading bay. Old machinery loomed ghostly in the yard, like skeletons locked in battle. It had its own wharf, and the smell of rotting wood hung in the air along with the sickly odor of river mud.

  “Perfect place to keep someone prisoner,” Pitt said softly. “They could scream themselves sick and nobody would care. Anyone who heard would think it was another piece of machinery breaking, or even a seabird crying. They come upriver this far.”

  “For God’s sake, man, don’t just stand there!” Teague said with desperation sharp in his tone. “We’ve got to take Hall before he gets to her!”

  Hall was somewhere ahead of them, but they could no longer see him.

  Pitt took a step forward.

  Behind him Stoker and Narraway went out to the left, Nazario to the right. Slowly they all moved across the littered space, feeling their steps carefully. A fall over a piece of rolled wood, rubble or parts of broken machinery would not only alert Hall ahead of them, but would cause disabling injury if it were over glass shards, or wood with protruding nails.

  They reached the entrance to the main work floor and Teague tried the first door. It gave beneath his weight, the wooden frame rotten. As Pitt stepped in behind Teague he could smell the decay in the air, the wood rot, mold, even the breath of tidal mud.

  Ahead of them there was a noise: a single thump of wood against wood, but it was clean, not splintered, just one sound. It was a human step, not the crumble of floor falling apart.

  Teague froze, then looked up. He turned to Pitt and pointed to his left, then started to move to the right himself.

  Pitt moved carefully, afraid of knocking into the remnants of machinery still in the place.

  The cloud cleared again and moonlight shone through the open roof. Lengths of timber lay on the floor. One misplaced step could send you falling, landing hard.

  Pitt stepped over a pile of chains and a crane hook. Teague was still ahead of him.

  Hall was out of sight.

  Rafters creaked and sagged above.

  Somewhere to the left a rat scuttled across the floor, its claws scratching on the wood. The whole place seemed to be alive with tiny movements, men walking slowly, a step at a time, small animals of the night looking for food, beams settling, the water rising and seeping upward to fill the thousand tiny channels until it covered the floor and the broken debris was concealed, a hidden trap.

  Pitt froze. Was that someone moving above them, or more wood settling as the water rose?

  A rat splashed off a step.

  Ahead of them and to the right Teague’s tall figure emerged from the gloom. Pitt could see several other men in the shadows. Teague’s men? How many did he have? Some of them must have come from the river side of the factory. He could see four or five, and Brundage and Hollingsworth had arrived now too.

  Brundage was over to the right, Narraway opposite him. Pitt could not see Nazario.

  “Looks like this is the battleground,” Teague whispered.

  “I don’t give a damn about battlegrounds,” Pitt said fiercely. “Where is Sofia? Is she even in this place? What’s happened to Hall? He’s the only one who knows where she is.”

  Somewhere ahead of them a volley of shots rang out. Then a moment later, several more.

  Teague had disappeared.

  Pitt cursed under his breath and stepped forward into the moonlight.

  “Hall!” he shouted. “Barton Hall!”

  There were several seconds without sound at all, then there was a movement above them, but not much more than a brief shadow across the moonlight.

  “What is it, Pitt?”

  Pitt looked up and saw the silhouette of Hall. He was standing at the edge of the crater made by the caving-in of the floor above. There were three beams left that crossed it. All the rest were jagged, sheared away by falling masonry, or simply rotted by seasons of rain and sun.

  Teague was standing thirty feet away, on the same floor, facing Hall across the open space between them.

  Stoker had his gun out.

  Pitt looked up at Hall. “You can’t leave here. We have the factory surrounded. Sofia can’t tell you where Castillo is now, because none of us knows. He escaped after he killed the man who attacked Nazario.”

  Hall glanced down at him, then across the gaping space between himself and Teague. At the back of the building, the littered floor and the last of the rotting beams that stretched between them.

  Pitt thought of Frank Laurence, the anger he felt against Teague and Hall, and all that he had said about school days, cheating, debt and hatred.

  He looked up at Hall and Teague facing each other.

  “Haven’t we come a long way?” he said almost conversationally, though his voice could be heard throughout the yawning space, above the dripping water and the occasional skitter of rats’ feet, or the settling of timbers.

  “Do you remember the exam room? Do you, Hall? You always knew all the answers, while the rest of them were still trying to understand the questions.” He turned a little. “Isn’t that right, Teague? He thought like a genius, and on the sports field he ran like a duck!

  “But you remember the cricket field, don’t you, Teague? You were golden! All grace and strength, all skill. You could hit a ball out of the pitch, and run like a deer. You practiced enough. Kind of put you at the back for the exams, though! Didn’t it? You needed Hall to help you cheat. What a disgrace if Teague, of all people, failed the exams! Golden Teague, who could do anything! A god on the sports field, a dunce in class?”

  Teague came to the edge of the crater. “If Laurence could have proved that, he would have done it years ago! You’re making up stories because you’d like them to be true.”

  “One of your masters knew, though, didn’t he?” Pitt said clearly. “Do you remember him? Burned to death in his own house. Smoking. Let the hot ash fall. At least that’
s what they said.”

  Hall walked toward Teague, who was several feet across the huge, surviving beam. It cracked and a little plaster fell. Hall ignored it and moved another couple of steps toward Teague.

  Pitt watched.

  Teague was smiling, his mane of hair like a halo in the moonlight. “What did you do with the money, Hall?” he asked. “There must be something of it! And you’re still borrowing more.”

  “To make up for what the hoax swallowed,” Hall replied. He looked like a man staring into the abyss, but he did not sway on the beam, nor did he take his eyes off Teague.

  Pitt saw out of the corner of his eye that Stoker had his gun leveled at Hall. Pitt kept his own on Teague.

  Teague laughed. “You thought the mines in Manitoba would make a fortune for you and you’d crown your success by becoming Governor of the Bank of England. Sir Barton Hall! Maybe in time Lord Hall! Save the country. Get us back to the top again.”

  Suddenly Pitt began to see a different picture. It wasn’t about money, or about what money could buy, but what the having of money could gain for you. Glory! The gratitude of men with power to give office, and take it away. The hoax was about ruin…and rescue.

  Pitt stepped forward and looked up at Teague, wanting to keep the situation under control.

  “Was that what he meant to do?” he smiled at him as if he believed him still. If Teague turned his men on them, the results would be disasterous. “Rescue the bank and by saving one, stop the slide of all of them? Just in time?”

  Teague was startled, and then he took another step forward to where he looked down at Pitt. “Very clever, Commander. You got there at last. A day or two after I did, but yes, that’s what he meant to do. Step out and be the hero. Damn fool!”

  In that moment Barton Hall lunged. He caught Teague in the center of the chest and they struggled for a long, desperate moment, then Hall closed his arms around Teague and both of them went over the edge, crashing onto the litter on the floor below.

  Pitt ran over to them, tripping and blundering as the darkness closed in again and he found the way into the center where Hall lay absolutely still. One look showed that his neck was broken.

  Pitt turned to Teague just as Narraway got there, Stoker a moment later.

  Teague was still alive, but there was blood on his face, in his mouth. Pitt could see he was finding it difficult to breathe.

  There was no time for mercy, and he was beyond help.

  “Where’s Sofia?” Pitt asked him. “And where’s the money?”

  “It’s safe,” Teague whispered. “Ask Hall…”

  “It’s too late for that,” Pitt told him. “You were the partner of Castillo and Alonso. Was it your idea?”

  “Good one,” Teague said with a grimace that might have been intended as a smile. “That fool Hall swallowed it whole!”

  “Where’s the money?” Pitt repeated. “Let me put it back, and save the bank. Isn’t that what you were going to do anyway? Be the hero once again, give your own personal fortune to save it, and be rewarded with governorship of the Bank of England? You would have deserved it.”

  “Why the hell should I tell you?” Teague gasped. He was fading rapidly. The bleeding was inside him where they could not reach it.

  “Because if you do, I will put it back where it belongs,” Pitt replied. “You will die the hero you always needed to be.”

  Teague smiled, just a twitch of the lips.

  “And if you don’t,” Pitt went on, “then I will see that your memory is stained with the blood of Sofia Delacruz, and of the two women who died on Inkerman Road. And for all I know, that poor old master, long ago in your school days, when you hadn’t the brains to pass your exams and you got Barton Hall to cheat for you. Even your cricket glory won’t count for much then!”

  “Why should I believe you?” Teague was clearly struggling against the encroaching darkness.

  “Because I give you my word,” Pitt replied.

  Teague whispered something almost inaudible.

  Pitt bent closer to hear it. It was a number. The last words Teague said were the name of the bank, and the man to speak to.

  Pitt reached out and closed Teague’s eyes, then he stood up. He looked at the other men. “We are going to say that Teague died in an accident during our raid of this place,” he said without any change of tone.

  They stared at him. It was Brundage who spoke. “We know he killed the women on Inkerman Road and probably the man in Spain. He might even have killed the poor old schoolmaster!” he protested.

  “No, we don’t,” Pitt replied. “But if he did, he’s dead himself now.”

  “He was a monster!” Brundage said hotly. “And we don’t even know if Sofia is still alive! If she isn’t, then he tortured her to death. Are you going to cover that up too?”

  “If she’s dead,” Pitt answered quietly—the words were difficult to say—“then she died to keep the secret of the hoax so the banks would not crash. Do you want to punish Teague at the cost of having it all come out in the open? That would make her sacrifice worthless.”

  Brundage stood motionless, confused.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Narraway answered for him. “But we’re not standing around here arguing about it now. Let’s find Sofia, if she’s here.” He lowered his voice. “And arrest Teague’s men! We’ll decide what to charge them with later. We don’t want a damn gun battle!”

  Brundage looked around him, hand on his gun now. “What about Hall’s men?”

  “I don’t think he had any,” Pitt answered. “He was only here because of Teague. I think he just wanted to end it.” As he spoke he was moving back into the shadows. They were too vulnerable where they stood in the fitful moonlight, exposed one minute, shadowed the next. He thought Teague’s men might surrender, now that their leader was gone. They might even be bitterly disillusioned, perhaps not even have really understood what they were doing. But he did not intend to rely on it for his men’s safety.

  And Nazario had a gun. If they did not find Sofia alive, he might be tempted to take revenge. Pitt would not blame him if he did, and he really did not want to have to arrest him for it.

  He left the others to round up Teague’s men and he and Nazario began a systematic search of what remained of the factory, watching carefully for broken beams, floors with rotten wood, boards that would give way beneath them. They moved silently, not calling out in case there were any of Teague’s men hiding, frightened now and believing they had little to lose.

  The stink of tidal mud was everywhere. Everything seemed to settle lower with each creak, as if it were drowning half an inch at a time. The tide was on the ebb. Below the high water mark, everything dripped.

  It was Pitt who found her. She was lying on the floor in one of the lower rooms. He had to splash through a pool of river water to get to the door, and up the last step.

  There was a man guarding the door. He raised a gun toward Pitt.

  Pitt hit him as hard as he could, all his weight behind the blow. The shock of it went right up his arm and the man dropped like a stone and did not move. If Pitt had injured his arm he barely felt it. He stepped over the man and went to Sofia.

  She stirred, opened her eyes and flinched as if she expected to be struck.

  “It’s all right,” he said softly. “I won’t hurt you.”

  She stared at him in the faint moonlight.

  “Pitt,” he told her. “Thomas Pitt. Can you sit up?” He put his arm out and it was only when she took it to pull herself up that he felt the pain. Not that it mattered in the slightest. He closed his hand over hers and took her weight.

  “Can you stand?” he asked. “Lean against me. We’ll get you out of here, and to a doctor.” He lifted her as gently as he could.

  She was standing, swaying a little, when he heard a noise at the door and snatched his gun out, knocking her away to leave his arm free to fire.

  But it was Nazario who stood in the doorway, the moonlight showing tears o
f relief running down his face.

  “Thank you,” he said huskily. “Dear God! Thank you.” He came forward and took Sofia in his arms.

  She clung to him for a moment, and then straightened herself with difficulty and obvious pain. She turned to Pitt. Her clothes were torn, her hair matted, her face was filthy, dark with bruises and swollen out of shape, but she stared at Pitt with a slow smile.

  “I knew you would come for me, Mr. Pitt, but I am profoundly grateful that you were not much longer. I don’t think I could have lasted. What are you going to do with Mr. Teague?”

  “He’s dead,” Pitt replied. “I gave him my word that he would be buried with honor, as long as the money is where he told me.”

  She took a long, slow breath and her face was beautiful with gratitude. “Thank you, Commander Pitt. You do know what it is you believe, and it is good…very good.”

  To Michael Ducker

  By Anne Perry

  FEATURING WILLIAM MONK

  The Face of a Stranger

  A Dangerous Mourning

  Defend and Betray

  A Sudden, Fearful Death

  The Sins of the Wolf

  Cain His Brother

  Weighed in the Balance

  The Silent Cry

  A Breach of Promise

  The Twisted Root

  Slaves of Obsession

  Funeral in Blue

  Death of a Stranger

  The Shifting Tide

  Dark Assassin

  Execution Dock

  Acceptable Loss

  A Sunless Sea

  Blind Justice

  Blood on the Water

  FEATURING CHARLOTTE AND THOMAS PITT

  The Cater Street Hangman

  Callander Square

  Paragon Walk

  Resurrection Row

  Bluegate Fields

  Rutland Place

  Death in the Devil’s Acre

  Cardington Crescent

  Silence in Hanover Close